Dead Men Don't Order Flake

by Sue Williams

  27

  Back in my car, I rummaged around in my handbag for something edible. An old Mintie. Well, it would have to do. I threw it in my mouth, then grabbed my phone and dialled.

  ‘Slick Café. How can I help you?’ A female voice at the other end of the phone line.

  ‘May I speak to Ms Jacinta Thomas?’ Bugger, the Mintie was stuck between my teeth. A pretty useless position for voice deepening, but maybe it would muffle my voice at least.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she said.

  ‘My name’s…Isssabel Allenby, from Allenby and…Co. I’m sorting out a number of outstanding legal mattersss relating to Ms Natalie Kellett’s tragic death.’ I tried adjusting the Mintie, aiming to sound less snake-like. ‘May I speak to Ms Thomas please?’

  ‘Speaking.’ The voice was a whisper.

  ‘Excellent. Now, Ms Thomas, I presume you received our letter?’

  ‘Err, no.’

  ‘Oh? Well, that is rather odd. Still, the postal service these days…Anyway, the fact of the matter is that there’s something Ms Kellett wanted you to have. Something… quite valuable.’ I crossed my fingers. Surely Natalie had been too young to think about a will?

  ‘What do you mean? Natalie died months ago.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we did experience a slight delay with granting probate. Still, everything is in order now.’

  ‘Well, none of this has got anything to do with me.’

  I clicked my tongue. ‘I know this must be quite upsetting. At Allenby and Co. our aim is simply to do the right thing by the deceased, in this case, poor Natalie. I’m sure you would understand that. As her friend.’

  ‘I’m at work. I don’t have time for this.’

  I suddenly started feeling a lot more sorry for telemarketers than I’d ever thought I would.

  ‘It’s completely up to you, of course. But it is a rather lovely sounding item.’

  A pause. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Let me read it to you. I hereby leave to Jacinta Thomas my black maxi dress, the one I wore when I went with her to the Australia Day party at…oh dear, there’s a terrible smudge. Let me try it in a brighter light.’ I paused a moment. ‘No, still quite illegible, I’m afraid. Still, given that you were there with her, I’m sure you’d remember the occasion. Perhaps you can state the location for me… for the record?’

  I rustled through a couple of old flyers from my handbag, in the hope that it sounded like I was in an office.

  ‘Are you for real?’

  ‘Of course. At Allenby and Co., we pride ourselves on the quality of our record-keeping.’

  ‘Well, maybe I should come to your office.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re located in Collins Street in Melbourne. Probably not terribly convenient for you? I’m happy to resolve the matter on the telephone. If you can just state the location of that party…?’

  ‘Um, this is all very weird. Look, we’re about to close. I have to go.’ She hung up.

  Bugger bugger bugger.

  A few moments later, I was pulling up outside the Slick Café. I marched in over the black and white tiles, up to the counter. Jacinta had her dark ponytailed head bent over a mass of till receipts spread out in front of her.

  I leant in and put my arms on the counter.

  ‘We’re closed,’ she said without looking up.

  ‘I’ll wait.’ My voice was grim.

  She looked at me then. Her eyes widened.

  ‘You bloody well listen to me, Jacinta. You know something about Natalie’s accident, don’t you?’

  She glanced to the left, then to the right, like she was doing some strange eye exercises. Or searching for a lie she’d put down somewhere.

  ‘If not for Natalie, for your own sake. If she was murdered and you know something about it, you could be in terrible danger. You do realise that, don’t you?’

  She looked down at the receipts, her lips trembling.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It was Morris.’ Her voice was a whisper.

  ‘What? You mean Morris killed her?’

  ‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’

  ‘Jacinta, stop lying. Tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know where he was that night.’ Her voice was a wail. ‘Or the night you were burgled. All I know is that he asked me to tell the cops—your son, I mean—that he was with me the night of your breakin.’

  ‘Well, would he have had any reason for wanting Natalie dead?’

  ‘I don’t know, I tell you.’ Her face was red.

  ‘Do you know what the story was that Natalie was working on?’

  ‘No. Agh. I hate this. All of it.’ She scooped up the till receipts and flung them over me. Then sprinted out the door.

  28

  I woke, sweaty, my heart jack-hammering. Just another dose of that nightmare. I lay there a moment, getting my breath back. Finally drifted off again.

  The next morning I was busy fighting my toaster for a slice of burning toast when I heard a car pull up outside. A car door opened, then shut. Footsteps crunched over the gravel.

  A figure hobbled past my kitchen window, a woman in a navy blue head scarf and sunglasses. She looked worryingly familiar, despite the scarf and sunnies. A rapping at my door. I opened it, waving away as much of the swirling toast smoke as I could. Glenda Fitzgerald took off her sunglasses and headscarf, glanced over her shoulder, then back at me.

  ‘May I come in?’ Her voice was an urgent throaty whisper.

  I waved her into my kitchen. She winced. Maybe it was the smoke. Or the decor. It’s pretty flash, my new place, although the colour scheme isn’t quite what I had in mind. A bit of a misunderstanding with the painter. Well, he calls it a misunderstanding. I call it a mistake. His. Anyway, we’re still in the process of negotiating over all that, a bit of a protracted process. In the meantime, I’ve been surprised at how quickly you can get used to bright orange walls. They’re actually quite cheerful on a grey day. Not that we get many grey days in Rusty Bore.

  Glenda might have been going on seventy, but she looked as regal as ever. Swept-back dark hair, some wisps of grey near the temples, deep-set dark eyes. I hadn’t been this close to her in years. That aristocratic mouth was surrounded by a network of grooves.

  ‘Tea?’ I said automatically and then regretted it. I didn’t want to give her a reason to prolong the visit. I’m always somewhat tense in Glenda’s company. It’s not easy breaking old hospitality habits, though.

  ‘No, thank you, I’m fine,’ she said, folding her hands across her flat stomach.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  There’d be no pleasure at all for either of us, I was sure of that. Glenda avoids me as much as I do her. I’ve seen her scurrying off down the main street of Hustle to get away from me. On the rare occasion we’re forced into an encounter, we’re always polite. Glacially.

  She winced again, favouring one leg, like the other was hurting her. I remembered the limp.

  ‘Please. Take a seat,’ I said.

  ‘How very kind,’ she sat at my kitchen table. ‘I must say it’s a relief to take the weight off that bone spur. Look, the reason I’ve come…’

  An ear-splitting screech from my smoke alarm. I leapt over to the door and opened it again. Flung it back and forth to get a bit of airflow. That usually does the trick. I smiled a strained smile at Glenda while I kept up the door-flapping. She continued talking, or at least her mouth moved; I couldn’t hear a word.

  ‘Be with you in a moment,’ I shouted.

  I’d really rather get rid of the smoke alarm, or the useless toaster, or both. But the toaster was a wedding present from Sophia, and the insurance was quite insistent on a top-range alarm after the place burned down. Pernickety bunch of nanny-state fusspots, is what Ernie said.

  After a couple of deafening minutes, the alarm finally shut up. I closed the door and moved back towards my kitchen table.

  ‘I’m sure you know, and probably better than anyone, that I’m a woman of integrity,’
said Glenda.

  I considered that a moment. Glenda never actually paid me for that do at the Hustle Golf Club. Admittedly I never chased her up for it either. In the circumstances, it didn’t seem appropriate.

  ‘Despite everything, all the terrible disappointment, all the crushed hopes of my poor Irene…I’ve never once… she’s never…neither of us have…’ She reached into her handbag, took out a crisp white hanky and blew her nose, the full goose-honk.

  True enough. Glenda had never been vindictive, not obviously anyway, after the slight debacle of Irene and Leo’s engagement party.

  ‘And really, poor Irene could do without all of this,’ Glenda swept out an arm, ‘at the moment.’

  ‘Err, all of this being…?’ I said.

  ‘These ridiculous rumours about Andy, of course. I know what you’re up to.’

  ‘Not sure what you’re referring to,’ I said.

  ‘I’m quite aware that blasted Kellett fellow has engaged your services. A little bird told me. Look, there is no way Andy would involve himself in anything…untoward.’ Glenda sniffed.

  She put her handkerchief away.

  ‘Now, I need to know what information you have, Cass, and exactly what you’re going to do with it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not at liberty to say…’ I started.

  ‘Don’t you play the high and mighty investigator with me,’ she snapped.

  ‘Was it Morris Temple,’ I said, ‘your “little bird”?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You do realise Morris Temple lied about his whereabouts the night of my breakin?’

  ‘What exactly are you insinuating?’

  ‘I’m not insinuating anything, just stating facts.’

  She sat straighter than ever. ‘Well, that is not my concern.’

  ‘You’re not concerned about your employees lying to the police?’

  ‘Look, this is not what I’ve come here for. I want to tell you that even if that young woman had some kind of crush on Andy, and I stress he would have done absolutely nothing to encourage her, it’s highly unlikely it had any bearing whatsoever on her accident. She was simply a reckless driver.’

  ‘How can you be so sure Andy didn’t encourage her?’

  ‘I’m offended at the very suggestion.’

  ‘I’ve heard some not very nice things about your son, Glenda.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘The dog.’

  Her nostrils flared. ‘That dog was run over. A tragic accident. I would have thought you, of all people, would be above spreading vicious rumours.’

  ‘And I understand he’s involved in the Ignition Group?’ Worth a try.

  ‘What’s that?’

  I tried another tack. ‘What story was Natalie working on when she died?’

  Glenda folded her arms. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I think you do. And why exactly did you pack Shane Millson off overseas? That happened very fast after Natalie’s accident. If it was an accident.’

  A pause.

  ‘And why is Morris Temple stalking me?’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘How ridiculous. The Cultivator has the highest of standards, you know. We obtain our stories via strictly ethical means. We certainly do not permit our staff to stalk anyone.’

  ‘Well, he’s definitely been following me.’

  ‘You’re throwing around a lot of unsubstantiated accusations. I do hope you’re not doing so publicly. Because,’ she paused, ‘it would be a shame if an unsubstantiated rumour started up about the Rusty Bore Takeaway, wouldn’t it? A little hepatitis-A type of rumour. It would be so dreadfully unfair.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  Glenda clicked her tongue. ‘Look,’ she leaned forward. ‘Don’t you think it’s time we let bygones be bygones?’

  Something about her conspiratorial air gave off a warning.

  ‘I mean, why don’t you just take your time over this matter? There’s no hurry, surely? Whatever you find, it’s not going to bring Natalie back. So there’d be no harm in your delaying things for a few weeks, would there? Just until after the election? Let the fuss die down a bit. Poor Irene could do without any…family scandals at the moment. And you must have a lot of other priorities to attend to. That smoke alarm, for instance. I mean, if you need help…financial, any kind of help, all you need to do is let me know…’

  ‘Are you offering me money to shut up?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. Not to shut up. Just to…slow down.’

  ‘Why?’

  She moved uncomfortably in her chair. ‘For…Irene.’

  Surely Irene could cope with a rumour about her brother? Politicians are gossiped about all the time. That’s mostly their point.

  ‘Glenda, is there something I should know?’

  ‘All you need to know is that you owe me a favour.’ She spoke stiffly.

  I chose my words carefully. ‘Look, I know Irene and Leo’s engagement was a disaster, and I played my part in that. But that was twenty years ago. It’s probably time we all got over it. And it’s not like Irene’s unhappy. She’s done well, she’s mayor of Muddy Soak, and very popular from what I hear. Well, she was until that pokies decision.’ I paused. ‘Did someone get to her, Glenda? Like you’re trying to do with me?’

  Her cheeks bloomed a bright shade of red. ‘How dare you!’ She pushed out her chair, the legs squeaking on the floor. Glenda stood, wincing as she put the weight on her foot. She limped towards my door. ‘What a disgraceful accusation. And after everything…well, I can hardly believe you would be so callous.’

  She left, slamming the door.

  After Glenda’s departure, I gave Gary a quick call; gave him an update on progress. I still had no idea what Natalie had been working on, but clearly Glenda thought I was getting close.

  I glanced at my watch: almost ten o’clock. Nearly time to open the shop. Before that, I needed a quick chat with Brad. I found him in his room.

  ‘Brad, Natalie had been in touch with UnSmogOz via Twitter. She wanted to send him some info about the Ignition Group.’

  Brad googled the Ignition Group on his phone. A consultancy company in the US, a telecommunications company in South Africa and a software provider in the West Indies. None seemed to have whole lot of relevance to Muddy Soak.

  He tapped in something else and brought up a web page with lots of photos of wind turbines.

  ‘This is the last post on Will Galang’s blog.’

  I read over Brad’s shoulder.

  Next week, I’ll be bringing you a story inspired by a friend of mine. Sadly, she’s not with us anymore. So I’ll be publishing the story here, as a small tribute to Natalie Kellett: an outstanding journalist.

  Aha, a definite connection. For about a millisecond I considered calling Dean.

  Yeah, no. Dean would be in need of some cool-down time, after the debacle in Target. A good long time. Possibly a lifetime.

  I got on with opening the shop. Wrote up my specials board. Put a new jar of pickled onions on the counter. I was lining up my salad containers in the fridge, when the shop bell rang. I looked over, stood up and straightened my back.

  Madison charged in, wild-eyed. She had a ferret in her arms which looked pretty wild-eyed as well. The ferret was squealing, maybe because she was holding it so tight.

  ‘No animals in the shop, Madison…’ I wasn’t up to a ferret health crisis this morning.

  But she interrupted me. ‘Cass. Quick. You have to go to the hospital. It’s Vern.’

  29

  I left Brad in charge of the shop and sped all the way to Hustle. Arrived at the hospital, a little breathless, and hurried down the squeaky-floored corridor to Vern’s ward.

  In his white-blanketed bed, Vern looked smaller and way more frail than his normal self. He was half-sitting, propped against a pillow. One side of his face was covered with a bandage. Nasty red graze marks oozed on his chin and around his nose. His arm was in a sling.

>   ‘Vern? What happened?’

  He coughed, then winced.

  I sat in the chair beside his bed. ‘Madison said something about a truck…’

  ‘Tried to run me off the road.’ Vern’s voice was raspy.

  ‘I’ve always said you’re way too vulnerable on a recumbent bike. Never mind that stupid little flag, the trucks can’t see you, Vern.’

  ‘Bastard did it on purpose.’ Vern’s face was distorted with anger and distress. I’d never seen him like this. ‘I was out near the McKenzies’ place. Normal morning ride up till that point. Then this bloody great truck thunders up behind me. No traffic for miles. I wave him past. He just crawls behind me, gears crunching. I wave him on again. No go. And then suddenly, he overtakes, cuts in way too close and clips me wheel. Flips me and the bike right over the embankment.’

  He paused. ‘It was like he was waiting until we got to that embankment. Like he knew that would maximise the damage. That’s why I say he did it on purpose.’ Vern drew in a shaky breath.

  I stared. ‘Who would do something like that? You get the rego?’

  ‘Too busy trying not to die.’

  ‘A road train, was it?’

  ‘Nah, smaller. Tip truck. White.’ He paused. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking, Cass? And I’m not referring to your sexual fantasies.’ A weak smile.

  Ha.

  Then a nasty thought. ‘Vern, maybe it’s to do with Natalie Kellett. Do you…know something about her death?’ Good chance Vern had seen or heard something significant. Everyone knows Vern knows everything. And…someone had decided to take action? I swallowed.

  Vern’s face was white and frightened-looking. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Think, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I dunno what I know,’ he wailed, then coughed.

  ‘OK, just…relax.’ Christ, I needed to relax.

  I rootled through my handbag. Good, a bite-sized Picnic.

  He gave me a tiny nod. A one-armed man with his arm in a sling doesn’t have a multitude of methods to feed himself. I’m never wild about proximity to Vern’s vicinity, but this was a crisis. I unwrapped the chocolate bar and held it near his mouth.

  He took a delicate nibble. Vern Casey’s always been fond of chocolate, at least during the years I’ve known him. Casey.